Archive of Our Own

He’s soaring through the air, nothing but clear blue sky all around him, the wind whistling in his ears and ruffling his hair. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful.

He spreads his arms and feels the currents take him higher, take him anywhere he wants. He’s limitless. He’s free. He throws his head back and laughs, spinning through the sky. He screams, because he can. He can do anything. He can- he-

An invisible force yanks on his shoulders and pulls him back, pulls him down, he’s falling. 

He screams but he can’t hear himself, he’s spinning and he can’t stop. The blue blurs into green and brown and grey, there’s a voice in his ears but he can’t make out the words. He tries to spread his arms again but the wind is too strong, it won’t let him, he can only close his eyes and brace for the pain. He-

“Good morning, Simon! You want your usual?”

He hums lazily in the face of the barista’s bright smile, and lets his eyes drop to the display case. “Yes, with syrup. And an extra shot of espresso,” he decides. “And one of those glazed donuts, thank you, Hailey.”

Hailey glances down at his leg shamelessly. “Bad day?”

She means well. She’s too sincere of a person not to, and she’s young enough to need this job too much to be rude. Simon scowls anyway. “Bad sleep,” he corrects her, fingers clenching around the handle of his cane.

He wishes the leg was his only problem. That, at least, he’s learned how to deal with by now. Childish dreams that slam him awake and don’t let him fall asleep again are much more annoying.

He gives Hailey her tip either way, and even manages a smile when he wishes her a good rest of the day after the coffee wakes him up a little.

He’s pushed the rest of the way back into full awareness the moment he steps out of the coffee shop and a skater kid speeding by nearly collides with him. “Sorry, sir!“ the boy shouts, not even bothering to look back to check if he hasn’t knocked him down, and Simon lets go of the door to finally close it with a huff. Just before it can shut completely, a girl rushes past him to grab the handle and slip inside, throwing it open so wide that it would’ve hit him if he didn’t back away.

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair to calm down as he turns around and heads back to his bookstore. He can regain his peace and quiet there, since he doesn’t open on Sundays. It’ll be just him, the books, and the delivery boxes he needs to unpack. Peaceful.

It does bother him somewhat, that he’s lived in this city for as long as he has and yet he’s still not used to this - to the constant rush of it, even on a Sunday morning, that there’s always someone running late somewhere. If the light turns red when he’s crossing the street, there are cars honking at him to hurry up and disappear within seconds. People dash past him on the sidewalk and sneer at him for not moving at their speed or not jumping out of their way.

Sometimes it feels like no one around him knows how to slow down. Like all of them always have somewhere to be, things to do, people to meet - like all of them have something he doesn’t. And that feeling doesn’t just bother him, it grates on his nerves, because it’s not wrong. It’s not unfounded, it’s a fact. All of these people who are always late to everything will never lose time the way he has.

He shakes his head, pressing his lips together to try and make himself stop thinking about it, and looks down at the watch on his right wrist to check the time he does have. It’s barely nine, even though he sat at the cafe for longer than usual, and that means he can get in at least two hours of working before he has to start thinking about lunch. Though he could also just decide to get takeout and make that into three… It’s tempting. He’s not really in the mood to cook, especially when he remembers the sorry state of his fridge.

That settles it, then. Now he just has to decide which delivery boy he wants to talk to less-

Somebody slams into him. They don’t just brush too close past him or shove him out of their way, no, it’s a full on collision that catches his side on the wrong step, takes his cane right out from under him and sends him straight to the ground.

“Hey!” he’s already shouting before he’s even gotten a proper look at the stranger, because this may be the first time this exact thing’s happened to him, but he knows that very few people bother to spare the bare minimum of three seconds to at least apologize. “Asshole!”

But this guy hasn’t walked away. He’s standing above Simon, sweaty and out of breath, hazel eyes staring down at him like he’s looking at a ghost. “Ice?” he gasps, broad chest heaving. There’s something haunted in his expression, a strange kind of fear, maybe, so perhaps he’s the ghost between the two of them.

But undead or not, Simon scoffs at him either way and reaches for the cane lying under his leg. “No, I don’t need ice.”

As he slowly starts dragging himself up to his feet, it finally seems to drag the stranger back into the land of the living. “I- oh god, I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, grabbing Simon’s arms to help him get up. Simon lets him, shamelessly, because the firm grip does make it easier to find his balance again, but when he stands firmly on his own, he immediately shrugs it off with a scowl.

The man is taller than him, by about an inch or two, Simon notices now that they’re both up on their feet. The harsh lines of his face could be handsome, in a world where he didn’t end up on the ground because of them, and also in a world where they’re not staring at him like he’s just that, something to be gawked at. Which he’s not, fuck you too, asshole.

Said asshole’s hand lands on his shoulder instead of letting him go, long fingers clenching into the fabric of his coat awkwardly. “I-” he chokes out, but Simon doesn’t think his inability to speak is due to a lack of air anymore. “You- Does the name Kazansky mean anything to you?”

Simon can feel his eyebrows rising. It’s him who fell, but it sounds like this guy’s the one who hit his head. “I can’t say that it does, no.” He shakes his head slowly. “What is that, Polish? Russian?”

“Russian,” the man answers seemingly without thinking, mumbling. Then he blinks and finally lets go of Simon’s coat. “I- god, I’m so sorry. Are you- are you alright?” He looks Simon up and down, and his eyes widen like he’s just noticed the cane.

Maybe he’s trying to get rid of a hangover with a morning run? It is still the weekend, after all.

Deciding that he can’t be too mad at the man for having a good night, Simon sighs and adjusts his grip on the cane. “I’m fine,” he says, and he thinks he even manages to sound somewhat friendly. “Have a good day.”

“You- you too!” The man stutters after him as he steps out, and he has to clench his jaw when his right leg twinges unpleasantly.

Well, there goes the idea of working for three hours straight.

“C’mon, let me hear you,” a deep voice tells him, gasping, familiar.

He whines as if on command but protests in the next breath, “Can’t- we can’t.”

Long fingers dip down to his groin, threatening to make him moan. “There’s no one else here,” a whisper, tempting him. “Everyone’s out celebrating.”

A big hand wraps around him and forces him to clench his jaw to stay quiet.

“Ice.”

What? No, he doesn’t need-

“Stop worrying. You did good. You deserve it.“

He did good.

The moan is out of his mouth before he can stop it, and smirking lips press against his open mouth. “There you go. So good for me.”

Oh, god.

His back arches, hands scrambling to hold onto strong shoulders as slick fingers slip between his legs. “Slide-!”

Teeth sink into his lip, tugging gently before they pull away, and he looks into wide hazel eyes.

Not that he could ever even hope to remember them all, but on the list of the most embarrassing things to ever happen to him, coming in his pants from the dream of a stranger he’s talked to for less than five minutes sounds like it should be pretty high.

He thinks it might have been his first dream like that - wet dream, Jesus, is he a teenager? Obviously not his first one ever, probably, hopefully, but it’s the first one he can remember. It feels strangely like progress, somehow, in its own way, even if it’s not the kind he’s willing to share with his… not-therapist.

“You can just call me a friend, you know,” she told him once. “Seeing as you’re not making any other ones.”

“We’re not friends,” he protested lightly, but only the first part because, well, the second thing was true - and still kind of is. “You’re only talking to me because you feel responsible for me.”

That’s what he is more than her friend - her responsibility. He doesn’t resent her for it, he likes her either way and talking to her is nice, but he still hasn’t figured out what that makes her to him. He doesn’t really have to - it’s not like he has anyone else to tell about her, but it’d be nice to have a word for it.

Then again, a lot of things would be nice, that doesn’t mean he’s actually going to get them. He sighs and shakes his head as he looks around the shop, bringing himself back to the present. It’s not very busy in the afternoon, when the wave of kids heading home from school has already rolled through, but it’s just about time for the people leaving work to come in, as is proven by the older man who approaches the counter. Simon stands up from his chair to talk to him just as the bell above the door chimes, welcoming in another customer.

“There’s no need to get up for little old me,” the man chuckles, his wrinkles deepening with it, as he sets down a thick book - sci-fi, Simon remembers looking at the cover. Not really his style, but the art looks good enough that he did consider giving it a chance.

“Ah, I thought you would like that one, Mr. Williams,” he notes instead of sitting back down as he turns to find the barcode.

“I don’t know if I like it, I haven’t read it yet,” Mr. Williams huffs, not unkindly. “And I thought I told you to call me Tom.” He did - several times, in fact, but something about the name feels… Simon’s just being respectful, that’s all. He may joke with Mr. Williams about when he’s finally going to retire but calling him by his first name seems like a little too much.

“Of course.” His lips tick up a bit as he scans the price and relays it to the older man. “Let me know how you decide then, I could look into ordering more from the author, Mr. Williams.”

“Taking my money and making fun of me,” Mr. Williams mutters as he counts out the dollars, but he’s smiling too. “Young people these days, you have no respect.”

Some days, Simon pushes it a little further and makes a joke about veterans, but today, he leans over the counter to help Mr. Williams put the book into the bag on his walker, and gets distracted by the colorful stickers on it. “Oh, did your grandkids visit?”

Mr Williams huffs softly, indulgently. “Stayed the weekend.” He nods. “Parents were celebrating the wedding anniversary. They came with the sticker book.”

“And attacked the house, I presume?”

“I’m afraid I’ll be finding new stickers even on my death bed.”

Simon chuckles along with him before he straightens up and wishes him a good rest of the day. Watching Mr. Williams slowly head for the door, he settles back into his chair barely any faster and shifts to stretch out his right leg, his own cane leaning on the backrest. Maybe he should get some stickers too. It can’t hurt to try and decorate a little.

What follows for the next hour is about the closest thing to a rush his small bookstore is capable of experiencing. In reality, it means that the longest he gets to sit down for is about seven minutes, and he has to leave the counter twice to help people find books he knows he unpacked, but can’t quite remember where exactly he put them.

The first one is a newcomer, or at least he’s new enough that Simon doesn’t remember him yet, and the young man visibly hesitates when he pulls himself up on his cane. “I- it’s fine, I’ll go look again, I’m sure I just missed it,” he tries to say, and he’s probably right, but that doesn’t mean Simon won’t help him. It doesn’t mean he can’t help.

He gestures with the cane demonstratively and leads their way to the fantasy section to find the book with red and black dragons on the cover. It’s not even that bad today, but after a full day of working, he knows better than to leave the cane behind.

The second person is Mrs. Prescott, who just rambles on casually all the way to the mystery genre section and back. Simon rarely gets a word in with her but he doesn’t mind, especially not when he knows the lady just needs someone to talk to. He can even relate to the urge, somewhat, though he would never act on it.

“There you go, ma’am.” He smiles at her, carefully putting the change into her palm. “And I’ll look into finding the rest of that series for you.”

“Oh, I’d really appreciate that, thank you!”

They exchange a couple more pleasantries and then Mrs. Prescott is heading out, still as chipper as ever. Her mood is almost infectious.

This time, he only gets a couple seconds of a break, not nearly long enough to even start settling back into his chair, before he hears a soft little oh from his left. He smiles and turns to coax forward who he thinks is a small child, but he ends up having to look a lot - a lot - higher than he expected.

He can immediately feel himself starting to blush when he meets hazel eyes more familiar than they should be, but he’s been doing this job for long enough that his inviting expression doesn’t change. Thankfully, because while this man is certainly no child, he still seems to need some encouragement and friendliness to actually step up to the counter.

He swallows, clutching the books he wants to buy in his big hands like Simon might take them from him and kick him out. “I- I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already apologized,” Simon tells him, not unkindly, as he gestures with his hand to wordlessly ask for the books. “You don’t need to keep doing it.”

“Right. I- right.” The man clears his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck, but then he swallows again and finally gives Simon what he wants to buy.

He wants to laugh, just a little bit. He would never actually do it, he’d never dare make fun of a customer, but the private joke is simply too good. He allows himself at least an amused smile as he marks up the two children’s books, about dinosaurs and about planes, and the man thankfully seems to be able to see the humor in it, the corner of his mouth twitching up too.

“They’re for- uhm, a nephew,” he explains needlessly, the smile tugging on his lips even more now. “Birthday boy.”

“Ah. A future archeologist or a pilot?” Simon asks lightly. It’s practically an instinct to make conversation with a friendly customer, no matter that this one threw him to the ground during their first meeting and then stared at him like he’s already dead.

“Mom would prefer archeology, but it’s not looking good for her,” the man answers, his expression softening in a way Simon imagines only happens when one is speaking about people they really love.

He lifts an eyebrow, joking, “Oh, so you’re enabling both sides?”

“I prefer to think of it as not picking a side. You know-” Something about the conversation must touch a sore spot, Simon figures from how immediately the man stops talking, the words getting stuck in his throat barely a second before he closes his mouth and his smile disappears.

Not a word more is said between them as he pays and packs up the books, carefully, gently, like he’s handling something very precious. But then, just as Simon thinks that he’s going to turn around and walk out without saying so much as a goodbye, the man grits his teeth and looks at him again, with a strangely determined expression. “Listen, I- I know I’ve already asked, but are you sure you don’t know anyone named Kazansky?”

This time, feeling steadier on his feet and less banged around, Simon can hear from the way he says it, from how his voice nearly breaks on the name, how much this means to him. It doesn’t change his answer, but he can at least offer a kind smile as he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t.” Although no, truly, he can’t say that he’s sure of it. And maybe… with a nephew who wants to be a pilot, maybe like a member of his family, and with a man who felt the need to ask him twice… maybe he doesn’t want to be sure of it.

It feels like grasping at straws, and he swore to himself that he wouldn’t do that anymore, but. Maybe.

Softly, he sighs and asks, “Is- is it your name? Have we met before?” Should I know you? he wants to add too, but some people have found that one a bit more rude, a bit too pushy.

“No, I- Nevermind.” The stranger forces out a huff of an exhale, all that determination leaving with it, like he’s making himself get rid of it. He shakes his head in a way that looks more as if he’s throwing it around and shoving it from side to side, his short cut hair barely moving, and his mouth twists into some parody of a smile, like he’s trying to convince them both that it doesn’t mean as much as it clearly does. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

Simon understands the feeling, and suddenly, he thinks he understands this stranger a bit more too. So he lets him get away with it. “It’s alright. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

“It’s fine,” he answers quickly. “Thanks for the books. I- Have a good day.”

Simon knows a dismissal when he hears one - because he has heard quite a few of them. “You too.” And happy birthday to your nephew, he’d usually tack on, but he thinks better of it at the last second this time. He lets the stranger walk out, and ignores the sympathy tugging at his ribcage.

He’s flying- no, he’s falling- no. He’s- he’s sitting. He’s sitting in one place, stuck, he can barely move his limbs. And yet, he doesn’t feel trapped. He feels… safe. He feels safe here. Peaceful. He looks at the sky surrounding him from all sides, nothing but blue everywhere he looks.

It’s beautiful. It’s… home, almost, or it could be. Maybe it was.

“You know you’re just enabling him, right?” he hears himself ask. He doesn’t know why, he can’t see anyone else.

“Please, like he needs any encouragement,” someone scoffs from behind him. A male voice, deep, familiar. He can’t turn around to look, but he feels like he knows anyway that the sound isn’t really as annoyed as it seems.

“And yet you keep giving it to him.” He doesn’t understand his own words even as he says them, but he feels… amused by them. By this conversation.

The other voice is quiet for a beat but when it speaks up again, it sounds much more honest. “Trying to get him to stop would do more harm.”

He knows that too, but he can’t figure out how, can’t connect it with a person. He can’t remember-

The floor gives out underneath him. His floating turns into a freefall after all, sharp wind cutting into his cheeks and whistling past his ears.

It’s alright. It won’t hurt. It’s already happened. It’s happened more times than he can count and it will happen again.

His muscles tense instinctively, trying to brace for impact anyway, but he just closes his eyes and lets himself fall. It’s alright. It won’t-

“Tom!” That voice. A scream of pain, of anguish, of heartbreak, and his eyes fly open.

He’s falling. He’s heading straight for the ground with no way to stop and, oh god, he can see it, he can see the rocks he’s going to smash into and die on, no, no, no-

“No! Tommy!”

“Hey.” Maverick shuffles closer to him along the railing of the back porch they’re both leaning on, and clinks their beers together lightly. “You alright?”

Slider sighs and takes a swig from his bottle. He figured the question would come at some point - he tried, he did his best for Bradley and he’s confident that he’s managed to hide it from the kid, but he’s also confident that everyone else saw right through him.

As he swallows the alcohol, he wonders if Goose is coming too or if Mav’s decided to do this one on his own. Finally, he answers, “The new place isn’t what I expected.”

Suppose that’s a way to say it too.

But it’s not really an answer, and they both know it. Mav makes a face, an unhappy little thing, though it melts into a smile the moment Bradley calls out to him from the garden. “Yeah, I’m watching, Baby Goose!”

“Be careful you don’t take off!” Slider adds, both of them watching the kid climb the swing set. He’s sure the boy still doesn’t notice anything, he’s too distracted for that, but he can feel that the smile is coming to him a little slower than it did a couple hours ago. It’s just the exhaustion, he thinks.

“The city too busy for you?” Mav wonders after a second, refusing to let it go. Not that Slider was really expecting him to.

He grimaces. “Too… people-y.”

With the promotion, he could afford the new place more than comfortably, and with his position, he’s got enough time to himself that it even made sense to get it. They’ve all figured it’d be good for him, the change of scenery, and admittedly an apartment in the middle of a city is about the furthest he could get from the assigned housing he used to share with- with Ice. He just clearly chose the wrong city.

“Bradley!” Goose’s voice sounds from the sliding door and all the way across the whole garden to reach his son. “Come get something to drink!”

“Coming, dad!” the kid shouts back, and he sounds like he’s not even rolling his eyes too hard about it.

“He inherited his dad’s lungs,” Slider comments, hoping it will make Mav move on to another topic. But it’s no use when, after he puts a hand on Bradley’s shoulder and tells him to go help Carole with the snacks, Goose casually - kind of - moves closer to them and nudges Slider’s arm, not casually at all.

“How’s the beer?” he asks lightly. “You want something better? Stronger?”

Ah. This one’s a team effort after all.

“You don’t wanna get me drunk,” Slider huffs. “It won’t make me tell you more.” It’s a perfect non-answer to the question Goose is really not-asking, and he accepts it with a huff and a twitch of his mustache.

Slider can be the sharing type of a drunk, but he always veers more on the reminiscing side than talking about what’s bothering him - though most days, it’s kind of the same thing. But especially when he’s not in the best mood, it’s tended to end up with him crying in the last couple of years, and no one needs him to have that kind of a breakdown at Bradley’s birthday party.

“He’s just been telling me that he doesn’t like the people in the city,” Mav decides to fill Goose in, and Slider grits his teeth. Bastards, both of them.

Goose makes a frankly exaggerated sound of worry. “Oh no. What’s wrong with the city folks?”

Lots of things, actually, now that Goose says it like that. There’s so many of them, and they’re always rushing in completely opposite directions and they all need to be there right now when he’s just trying to take it easy for once and kill a whole afternoon shopping. It’s the stupid cars they drive and all the noise they make, and the girl living in the apartment next to his that always looks at him like he’s the weird one when he tries to make small talk. Though at least the older lady living one floor down is always eager to chat.

But none of those answers would satisfy either one of his friends.

“It’s- there’s this guy-” He shouldn’t have said it like that. He knows it the second it’s too late to take it back, the second Goose’s eyes widen and Mav’s eyebrows rise. Because there hasn’t been a guy the way they’re thinking since- since Ice.

Goddamn it, he used to be better at that. Or he’d been getting there, at least.

“Owns a bookstore,” he says next, because why the hell not. Every second longer he doesn’t say it is a good one, but he sadly doesn’t know enough about the guy to stall for as long as he’d like. He sighs. “And- and I swear, he looks exactly like Ice.”

He can actually feel both of them deflate, all their hopes that he might be finally moving on vanishing into thin air.

He goes on, because why not destroy them completely. “Just with longer hair. A couple years older. Sounds exactly like him.”

But petty as he is, that doesn’t make it easy to talk about. He grits his teeth and drinks more beer. Fucking hell.

The guy acts different enough that Slider’s always, constantly, painfully aware that he’s not Ice, but the way he looks… it’s a carbon fucking copy, down to that cursed birthmark he used to love so much - used to touch and kiss and bite and god, seeing it now just fucking hurts. The guy’s like a very targeted cosmic joke - or punishment.

Goose sighs next to him, a strong hand landing on his shoulder. “You want that shot anyway, after Brad goes to sleep?”

Actually, now that he’s thinking about it…

“But just the one.”

Over the next couple of weeks, Simon doesn’t figure out the stranger’s name, or who Kazansky is actually supposed to be, but he does come to understand that this man is haunted, not too differently from the way he himself is - and then again, maybe in a completely opposite way. Because where Simon is haunted by a lack of, an empty, a nothing where there should be a lot, this man seems to be struggling with too much of. Too many memories, maybe, too much pain. He could almost be jealous, if not for the fact that for this man, Simon clearly looks a little too much like a ghost.

He doesn’t come too often, but not exactly rarely either. He always looks like he didn’t quite mean to, when he steps inside and every time he looks at Simon during the time he spends in the store, browsing through the shelves or reading a book in the corner. He also looks very apologetic every time Simon catches his eye, and terribly like seeing him hurts, but he never looks away first, almost like he’s worried that Simon would take it personally.

He wouldn’t, not anymore at least. He doesn’t like people watching him with pity, like they think he’s a dead man walking, but this man - he’s clearly not actually seeing Simon when he’s looking at him, so Simon couldn’t find it in himself to be mad even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t.

But what he does want to do is offer the man some tea, the only kind of comfort he figures he’d be willing to accept from Simon.

Though at first, the man looks like he might not say yes after all, like he’ll decline even something so simple. And also like he wasn’t prepared for Simon to talk to him. “I-” He blinks. “Tea?”

Simon’s really starting to doubt if he’s made the right decision, but he barrels on either way. Retracting the offer now would definitely be rude. “I’m afraid I can only offer you green tea or chamomile, but I could run upstairs and get you some honey for it?” He only keeps sugar in the backroom. He’s got milk too, up at his place, but this man doesn’t strike him as the type.

“No, no, I-” He swallows. “Green’s- green’s fine. If you don’t mind. Thank you.”

Simon lets the stuttering pass without a reaction and tries for a reassuring smile instead. “Green tea coming right up. Would you like sugar? One? Two?”

The haunted look comes back in the twitch of the man’s eye, and he breathes in deep before he answers with a simple “One.”

With no more attempts to put him at ease - and he’s starting to doubt that his presence could ever actually have that effect here - Simon turns away and heads for the backroom, leaving the man to his war literature, leaning his cane on the counter as he passes by it. He wants both of his hands free for this and besides, it’s not even lunchtime yet. He can manage for a couple minutes.

The little paper plane sticker sitting under the handle catches in the light and makes the corner of his mouth tick up. Mr. Williams’ kids had the right idea.

He comes back five minutes later, sets his own cup down and picks up the cane again, his eyes lingering on the small snowflake he’s slapped a little farther down. He bought a whole pack of a random mix and then decided for the light colored ones at home, thinking that the contrast looked nice, but maybe some darker lines wouldn’t hurt either. He should look for some book themed stickers next time.

He hands the second tea to the stranger - whose name he still doesn’t know, but it’s starting to feel a little wrong to call him that - and for his sake, doesn’t attempt any more small talk. He only gives him one more smile and a quick “Hope you like it,” before leaving him to it. 

He doesn’t watch the man, even though he is curious, because that would be rude. But, standing at the counter with nothing else to do, his eyes inevitably glance in that direction, to see him toying with the tea tag and frowning at it.

Simon lets out a sad little sigh and looks away again. He doesn’t like being haunted, but haunting someone else doesn’t feel any better.

The television drones on in the background, quiet, the muted sound of shouting from some kind of a sports match, maybe. His eyes feel heavy, it doesn’t seem worth it to open them.

“Ice.” A soft voice, deep, pleasant like a warm embrace.

He frowns. What is it with the ice all the time? No, he doesn’t need-

“C’mon, Tom, you can’t sleep here.” A nudge to his shoulder, strong, jostling him.

He whines, protesting. He’s not-

“C’mon, your back’s gonna kill you.”

The sound of the television cuts off, and that’s what finally convinces him to open his eyes.

It’s dark. He can just barely make out the shape of the arm holding his shoulder, but he can’t find the rest of the body it must belong to.

“That’s it, Tom, now you gotta get up.”

He grumbles, squinting into the dark. It’s useless but he has to, he wants to see that voice, he needs to. “Wha’ time’s it?” he slurs instead, exhausted.

“Late,” the voice huffs as two strong arms wrap around him and lift him off the couch. A burst of light comes from the window, the revving of an engine, and it lets him see the coffee table and the two empty mugs sitting on it. His eyes catch on the tag of a tea bag, but the light disappears again before he can make it out.

There’s a faint taste of herbs lingering on his tongue.

“C’mon, Tom, work with me here.” A steady arm around his waist and his head lolls down to land on a warm shoulder, but he somehow manages to put one foot in front of the other. “There you go,” the voice grunts.

Between one blink and the next, he’s going down again, falling into soft sheets, his head hitting the pillow. He stops there. The whole world spins but he doesn’t tip over the edge of it, with a strong body wrapping itself around him, with long fingers gripping his hip.

“Now you can sleep,” the warm voice tells him. He listens.

“Oh, you know how it is,” her soft sigh carries through the phone quietly. “I’m always busy.”

“You should come work for me instead,” Simon huffs jokingly as he twirls the spoon around in his coffee cup, making it clink against the ceramic lightly. “Screw the government.”

She chuckles, because she’s polite like that, and probably also because she does actually like him, at least enough to not want him to doubt that he’s funny. Even over the phone, it sounds strained enough that Simon can tell it’s not wholly genuine.

“Ah, I’m afraid me and your books wouldn’t get along so well.” She’s even polite enough to waste her breath on declining out loud, no matter that they both know very well that she’d never say yes even if he was serious about the offer. And they both also know that he enjoys doing everything himself too much for that to happen.

He takes another sip of his lukewarm coffee and licks his lips. “Listen, I… I’ve been meaning to ask.” He hesitates, but he knows there’s no turning back now. “Did I ever… Did I ever have a partner? Before, I mean.”

He manages to swallow the sigh, but he can’t help the scowl. They don’t talk about it often, the before, not anymore. He knows the important parts - he knows his name and who he was, and that he was damn good at it, and why he can’t be it anymore. He knows why the dreams of falling keep haunting him, and he knows there are no loose ends he could busy himself with tying up.

He knows all he needs, and he doesn’t like thinking about the rest of it. About everything he’s lost and most likely won’t ever get back. It makes the emptiness hurt too much.

But there have been other dreams lately, that he’d like to understand too, desperately so.

“A partner?” she repeats. The surprise in her voice makes Simon wince. “Like a romantic partner?”

“Well, I don’t know about any crimes I’ve committed…” he tries to joke again and it’s awkward, it’s terrible, it’s so awful that she doesn’t even bother to fake a laugh this time.

“I…” She has to think about it. That’s not good. “No, not that I know of,” she finally says. “I’m sure there were some girls, but I don’t think you ever mentioned anything longterm, I’m sorry.”

He doesn't bother to hold the sigh back this time. “No, it’s fine.”

Honestly, he’s figured as much. The person reappearing in his dreams is clearly a man, one that feels somewhat similar to his haunted stranger, and even with what little he’s caught of the topic on the news, he has no illusions about what the Navy thought of that kind of a relationship when he worked for it - before.

She knew him then, from what she’s said, but she also explained that they weren’t the closest, before, so he figured she wouldn’t know even if the answer was yes. He was just hoping she’d give him a no that’s a little more convincing.

“Are you thinking of getting back out there?” she asks in that tone that makes it a little difficult to call her a friend, that makes her sound more like a therapist, someone always trying to analyze his mental state.

“Maybe,” he answers noncommittally - and he really would have meant it, maybe, in a world where the one man he could see himself being interested in wasn’t looking at him the way he is. In this world, he thinks it would be cruel.

“Well,” she breathes out. “You know who not to come to for dating tips-” The end of her sentence cuts off. Simon would almost worry that the call disconnected, if not for the rustling that quickly comes through. A moment later, she speaks again. “I’m sorry, Simon, I have to go.”

“Of course.” He nods easily, never wanting to hold her up. “The government waits for no one. Don’t work too hard, Charlotte.”

“I’ll try,” Charlotte huffs out a chuckle. “I’ll call again soon. Have a good rest of your day.

After they say their goodbyes, Simon carefully pockets his dear Nokia, the back of which has also not escaped the stickers, a small orange and white cat head now decorating it. Then he finishes the rest of his, by now disgustingly cold, coffee and brings the empty cup to the counter, his cane breaking up the silence of the half empty cafe as he walks.

Hailey is smiling at him before he’s even reached her, and he says hello to her with an amused sigh.

“That looked like an interesting phone call," she says casually. “Everything alright?”

For the first time, catching himself unprepared, Simon gets the urge to answer honestly - no. It never is. Instead, he says, “Everything’s just fine.”

Hailey shrugs and offers, “Want one more coffee? Or something sweeter?”

He checks his watch with a glance. Ah, what the hell. He can have a treat. “One coffee to go, please. With a bit of syrup.”

“Can you just-” Slider sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, his elbow digging into the table heavily. “Can you just ask her? Please?”

“Ask her what, Sli?” Mav questions in a tone that makes it very clear that he’s starting to get frustrated and is still making an effort to be nice only because Slider’s his friend and obviously going through something. Though he’s probably also thinking that the something in question is no longer just the grief Slider’s been going through for the past several years but quickly crossing into the territory of needing professional help, and possibly medication. “If she’s sure that a guy who’s been dead for years is actually dead?”

Slider grits his teeth and his fingers clench around the phone. They don’t use that word often. It always feels like a stab right through the ribcage. It’s also proof that Mav thinks he’s in desperate need of an intervention.

And Slider gets it. He knows, he fucking knows how it sounds, he can fucking hear it. He’s well aware of it, and he says as much to Mav before insisting, “But I swear to god, he looks exactly like him. Exactly like him, Mav, I swear.”

“Sli-”

“He sounds like him,” he emphasizes. “He smiles like him, he laughs like him, he drinks the same goddamn brand of tea.”

“Sli,” Mav sighs. “The tea?”

“Yes, the fucking tea.” Slider has to make himself shut up and breathe out, and breathe in, and then do it all one more time. Then he huffs. “Just… Please, just ask her. She can call me herself to tell me I’m being a fucking idiot but please, Mav.” He’s begging, and he’s not even ashamed of it. Shame isn’t something he’s capable of feeling anymore with the man who’s seen him get wasted and break down and then vomit-cry into a toilet in the morning. “She’s the reason I moved here, and this guy is Ice’s carbon fucking copy. If that’s nothing, I want to hear it from her.”

She’s not the direct reason and not the only one either, but she walked by the living room table while they were sorting through the listings all of them had collected, pointed to that particular cut out on the top of Goose’s pile and said she’d heard the area was nice. It being the only recommendation Slider had gotten, it was enough to sway him.

“Alright,” Mav finally breathes out, giving in. “Alright, I promise I’ll ask Charlie if Ice is absolutely, undoubtedly dead.” Slider tenses up, helpless to it even as Mav goes on with a sigh. “Could you just hold on for a couple days? She’s scouting out new recruits at Top Gun, and Goose and I have some things to tie up before I can drive down there. I’d rather not do this over the phone if it can wait.”

“How many days is a couple?”

“About two weeks? Hopefully?” Mav offers carefully, in a way that sounds like it’ll most likely be longer.

Slider presses his lips together, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “That’s fine,” he forces himself to say. “Two weeks is fine. Thanks, Mav.”

“Alright,” Mav tells him. “Take care of yourself, yeah? Have you been sightseeing yet?”

If he were in a better mood, Slider might have laughed. But then again, if he were in a better mood, Mav wouldn’t have asked. “I run,” he says. “All the tourist traps are overcrowded. Now stop stalling and get back to work.”

Mav chuckles. “Yes, sir.”

He’s falling, the clouded sky whirling past him. He can see the ground getting closer and closer, grey taking up his vision, nothing but grey everywhere he looks. Rock, hard, sharp rocks he’s going to shatter on.

He tries to brace for it, for the pain, for the break, but he crashes anyway, rough, body rocking with the impact, his head bouncing up and down, the grey going in and out of focus, blurring and melting into other colors no matter where he tries to fix his eyes. He-

His hand lets go of the stick. He’s landed.

The sunset shines bright in the corner of his eye, reflecting on the glass in front of him. His hand reaches out to undo his harness before he even realizes he’s sitting in a plane. He breathes out, and steps out onto the runway.

He hasn’t crashed.

He breathes in deep, and reaches up to take his helmet off, catching a glimpse of a blue lightning bolt.

“Hey!” A big hand slams down on his shoulder, so hard it almost makes him stumble. He blinks, wide-eyed as he looks up at the other man, but the sun nearly blinds him before he can find the face. Lowering his gaze, he notices the helmet under the man’s other arm, a red lightning bolt on it, light glinting off of it and making the letters underneath unreadable. Wait, why-

He frowns, glancing at his own helmet, turning his head to look at the tarmac behind them. A single plane stands there, gorgeous in the setting sun. But that doesn’t-

“Good one, ice!” the deep voice says.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, no, he doesn’t need-

“What are you feeling like tonight?”

“I feel like sleeping,” he says, sounding amused. “Because that’s all we’ll have time for after the debrief's over.”

An arm around his shoulders, the man pulls him close. “Just sleeping, huh?”

He can feel himself rolling his eyes, hissing, “We’re on base!”

“And I’m talking about going to the club!” The man is grinning, he knows it, but the sun blinds him again when he tries to look. He sees the red bolt again, the one that looks exactly like-

His hands press against the man’s side, fingers sinking into the rough fabric of a flight suit. “Ugh. You need a shower.”

“I think we both need a shower.” A strong hand squeezes his shoulder and lets him go.

“Asshole,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t mean it.

A snort. “Please, you love my-”

The rain starts pounding on the windows just as Simon counts out the change and sets it into Mrs. Prescott’s open palm. “I’m having trouble with the last one, but the rest of those books should be ready for you on Monday.”

She smiles wide as she takes the book for her son from him and carefully fits it into her bag. “I’ll be back on Monday, then.” She nods easily. “And you’ll let me know how the hunt’s going.”

“I’ll do my best for you,” he promises. “You should hurry home, the weather’s not looking too good,” he adds with a frown, glancing towards the door. It’s dark out, enough that he’s switched the lights on even though it’s still the middle of the afternoon. On days like these, he considers himself very lucky that his apartment is just a staircase away from the shop. “I hope your son likes the book,” he offers instead of worrying about Mrs. Prescott any more - out loud, that is.

She giggles as she assures him that she will, and walks away still smiling, like usual. She only pauses in front of the door to open her umbrella, and Simon watches her step outside into the downpour without hesitation, before he reaches for his stack of sticky notes to write down one more place where he’s just remembered he could try to order the book.

Not a second after he’s set the pen back down, a new person steps up to the counter and Simon nearly flinches from surprise. He didn’t realize there was someone else still in the shop. Well, not the paying customer kind of someone, at least.

But as he looks up, he sees that he was right after all. He just wasn’t expecting today to be the day when his stranger would finally decide to buy something again.

“Ah, I was wondering which one would be the lucky one you take home,” he jokes without thinking as he picks up the book to mark it up - Wingmen, by Ensan Case. This one wasn’t the easiest to find either, but he wanted it, wanted something like it, wanted it to sit on the shelf for people to see, even if he knew that no one might ever buy it. But this man is.

“Yeah, it’s-” he hesitates, swallows, and looks at Simon the way he usually does, like he doesn’t quite mean to be doing it. “Reminds me of something.” But the nerves in his voice this time sound a little different from what Simon is used to, so he just smiles and reads out the price.

“So you’re the reason your nephew wants to be a pilot, huh?” he tries next, wanting to help him relax. He doesn’t have the book to judge the people who want to read it too.

The conversation about the nephew feels like it happened ages ago, and the man’s lips twitch up like he feels the same. “No, that would be his godfather,” he reveals, almost, almost relaxed. “He promised to take him up in a Tomcat on his fifteenth-”

“Tom. Tomcat. C’mon, the kid’s gonna love you.” Soft, deep.

“I’m not worried about the kid not liking me, Ron.” A huff.

Screaming. Muted. Laughing? Too far away.

“C’mon, you can just tell him something about planes, it’s gonna be al-”

“-alright? Are you alright?”

He flinches when a hand touches his shoulder. It’s real. The voice is real. Where-

He opens his eyes to find the stranger standing in front of him, a worried frown on his face, Wingmen sitting on the counter between them. There’s no one else.

Simon can’t quite hold back the disappointed sigh, but he hopes it can be mistaken for relief. “I’m fine,” he manages, trying to think about the tea waiting in the backroom for him and nothing else. He hasn’t gotten his hopes up this high in a damn long while, and he hates it. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“If- if you’re sure.”

“I am, thank you,” he insists as he pulls out a plastic bag to put the book in. Between one breath and the next, he can hear the rain again and the echo of distant laughter fades away. “You should go, before the weather gets worse.”

Usually, he prides himself on being good at this, on being nice to his customers and making people want to come back, but today, he only forces himself to look up as the man says goodbye to see his face and know that it’s him speaking. No one else.

He wants his tea.

He watches the man leave mostly because he’s feeling too tired to look away, taking in the long back and broad shoulders, the wind that sweeps his jacket back when he opens the door. He should zip it up, Simon thinks, and he almost convinces himself to say it too when the gust rushes back out and slams the door. The rain hits the windows even harder, and lightning flashes out on the street only a second later.

Simon sighs. “You can-” he starts, but it’s too quiet. He tries again. “You can stay here,” he finally manages to call out. “Until it gets better.”

The man turns to look back, shaking his head. “No, I- I can’t let myself bother you like that. It’s okay, the subway’s not too far.”

“And I can’t let you go out into that,” Simon protests, even though he’s tired, even though he’s in no mood to talk to anyone anymore, even though all he wants is a cup of tea and some rest. But he definitely also wouldn’t want to be outside in that storm. “C’mon, the chairs are much more comfortable. And dry.” They’re reclining too, one of the many things he took a lot of care picking out. “I can get you some tea too.”

Thunder rumbles outside, loud and sudden and making him flinch before he can also point out the many books to pass the time with that he can offer. He clenches his jaw instead but even then, it seems to be enough to convince the man.

“Alright,” he decides. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“I could use some company until closing time,” Simon lies. “I doubt anyone will show up now.”

Someone else might have thought, or noticed that he’s just being polite, but he’s too good of a liar for that and this man clearly isn’t lacking in confidence. Instead of disappearing among the shelves again, he comes straight back to the counter and sets his new book down, using his now free hand to zip up his jacket after all. “I think I’d like the tea, if you really don’t mind. Something warm sounds great.”

A flash of lightning makes Simon tense up, reflexively preparing for the sound to follow, even as he nods. “Of course. You want it the same as last t- shit!” he curses as he leans away from the counter and instead of carrying his weight, his right leg gives out underneath it, completely numb, pins and needles stabbing through his calf.

He stumbles hard, painful, but before he can crash into the desk, or even to the ground, there’s a strong arm wrapped around his waist and a steady hand grabbing his shoulder, catching him.

The man gasps, “Are you alright?”

“It’s gonna be alright. Let’s-”

“I’m fine,” Simon says, harsher than he means to, as he regains his grip on the counter and finds his footing on one leg. “I’ve just been standing on it for too long, it’s fine,” he manages to explain a little more calmly. Where’s his damn cane-

“I- I don’t need the tea-”

“I said it’s fine,” Simon snaps, harsh again but damn it, he’s offered and it’s not-

The man breathes out, “Alright.”

“-right.”

Simon wrenches his eyes shut and shakes his head.

“I’ll drink your tea. If you sit down,” the man says in a tone that suggests he has experience with these kinds of arguments. Asshole, Simon thinks unhappily, but he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mean it.

He huffs. “Fine. I’ll sit down.”

He’s determined to make it the couple steps to his chair on his own but the man doesn’t let him, steadying him with strong arms instead and helping him slowly lower himself into the cushions.

Simon gets a strong urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and glare just as the thunder roars again, his shoulders jumping with it. “It’s right through that door,” he manages on an exhale, gesturing weakly and forcing himself to relax. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find, I don’t keep much else in there.”

“I’ll be right back.” The man squeezes his shoulder briefly before walking away. Simon watches, waiting for the door to close behind him and telling himself to finally ask for his name, if he’s letting him into the backroom. When the quiet click reaches his ears, he carefully slides down to the ground and straightens his leg out. There, that’s better.

He flexes his toes to get some feeling back, digging his fingers into the meat of his thigh. That hasn’t happened in… a long time. He doesn’t forget like that anymore, he’s usually better at taking it easy, but this conversation just… distracted him.

Finally, the unpleasant tingling goes away, but the sigh of relief gets stuck in his throat with another flash of lightning, and he frowns instead. Damn it, he wants-

The man comes back with a second click and only a slightly louder sound of worry.

“I’m fine,” Simon calls out before he can ask again. “I just want to keep it straight.”

“I can bring you another chair to prop it up?” he offers easily, walking into Simon’s line of vision with a frown. “You shouldn't have to sit on the ground.”

“I like it down here,” he argues, the words coming out of him kinder than he expected. Demonstratively, he leans back and rests his shoulders on the seat.

“Alright,” the man decides, dropping it surprisingly easily.

“Alright. Let’s just-”

Simon clenches his jaw as the man drops himself too, slowly folding his long legs underneath himself and settling on the ground right in front of Simon. He shifts a little, carefully getting comfortable with neither of his hands free. But not for long, as he offers one of the mugs to Simon, the tag of a chamomile tea bag dangling out of it.

Oh. That’s just what he wanted.

“How did you-”

“You said you’ve had a long day.” He shrugs. “And you don’t seem to like the storm much.”

Simon clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to look away at being found out like that, at getting called out so outright when he was doing his best to hide it. “Thank you,” he says, trying to sound casual, and quickly grabs the cup with one hand as he reaches out with the other too. “My name is Simon. I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself yet.”

It’s shameful, really, but it… it never felt like the right time.

It might still not be - the man presses his lips together for a short second, but he does ultimately manage to turn it into a smile, and shakes Simon’s hand with a firm grip. “Ron. It’s- it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m not worried about the kid not liking me, Ron.”

Simon squeezes his hand tighter without meaning to, tensing up, and he hurries to let go and wrap both of his palms around the cup to take a careful sip instead, trying to force himself to relax again. Goddamnit, brain, of all the days-

The hot tea hits his tongue and his eyes widen in surprise. “Oh,” he voices, licking his lips. “It’s sweet.”

The corner of Ron’s mouth ticks up in a quick, bitter smile. “Is that alright?” he asks. “I- uhm, I used to have a friend who didn’t like storms. He took it like that.” The way he says it sounds heavy. Painful. Not unfamiliar.

“It’s perfect,” Simon tries to assure him at least about something before carefully asking, “Is this friend the Kazansky you’ve asked me about?”

Ron nods without saying a word and takes a sip of his own tea, failing to hide a sigh into it. A strange mood takes over the room with the sound, or perhaps it’s always been there, silently filling out the space between the two of them. It’s a dark afternoon to spend sitting on the ground of an empty bookstore with a man he barely knows while a storm rages around them. It seems like the perfect time for something strange to make itself known, for ghosts like Kazansky to come out and haunt.

Simon gives the apparition the respect and space he feels it’s owed, gives it as long as he can stand the silence, until the thunder roars loud outside the window and makes him flinch sharply enough to almost spill his tea. He takes another sip to calm down and decides to offer, “You could tell me about him. If you want.” He waits until Ron looks up at him, waits to see that he’s not immediately closing off, and prompts, “Why did he not like storms?”

It can help to talk about things like that, he’s heard, though he’s not sure Ron is the type until he lets out a huff that’s almost amused. “It’s- ah, it’s kind of my fault, actually,” he admits with a wince, but it doesn’t seem like there’s too much pain behind it - or at least not more than Simon expected. It’s not a bad memory then.

“How so?” he encourages softly.

“We- uhm,” Ron hesitates after all, swallowing on empty, hands clenching around his tea. But after a moment, he does explain, “We used to fly together. He’s- he was the pilot and I was- was his RIO. Backseater.” He stumbles over the past tense, visibly painfully, and then tries to mask it by forcing himself to chuckle. “We had… pretty shitty luck the first time we had to land on a carrier. A storm came out of nowhere and we’d already gotten waved off once, ‘cause the guy was an idiot.”

For no longer than a second, for the blink of an eye, Simon can see himself sitting in the cockpit, raindrops hitting the canopy, the sounds of the thunder from outside the bookstore blending into something louder, wilder, the open sea raging underneath him. He can just barely make out the guiding lights of a carrier deck, but then he opens his eyes again and all of it disappears. There’s only Ron sitting on the ground in front of him, taking a careful sip from his steaming cup.

“Did it not go well?” he tries to guess.

Ron shakes his head a little, lifting it back up. “That depends on which one of us you’d have asked.”

“I’m asking you,” Simon points out simply, but something about it must be the wrong thing to say, because Ron blinks at him and his breath hitches, almost inaudibly.

Then he shakes his head again, like he’s trying to chase away whatever it is he’s thinking about. “Honestly, by the time we touched down, I was just glad we’d landed,” he answers, forcing his shoulders down with an exhale. “When we were coming in for the second try, lightning hit like… right next to us.”

Simon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did it hit the ship?”

“No, no,” Ron rushes to correct himself. “Alright, it wasn’t right next to us, but it felt like it. Y- Ice- uhm, my pilot, Kazansky-”

“Ice?”

“Ice?” Simon is asking before he’s really decided to open his mouth, interrupting, rude, but - ice.

That little hurt look is back in Ron’s eyes as he nods. “Yeah, I- that was his- his callsign. Iceman.” He sniffles a little, quiet. “We called him Ice.”

“Good one, Ice!” 

This whole time, it’s been a nickname?

Has it been a nickname every time?

Simon is staring, unsure what to say, unable to form words, but thankfully, Ron takes that as his cue to continue. “Anyway, he was really focused on landing it right, we were practically touching down at that exact moment,” he says quickly, like he’s trying to move on as fast as possible. “But I got… I freaked out. I panicked, screamed, and that’s what ended up freaking him out too. He thought something happened to me and he flinched, yanked on the stick too much, and it went all kinds of fucked up. We slammed into the wire, nearly broke it and fell off the other side of the ship. Our CO said it was a fucking miracle that we didn’t catch on fire.”

Simon can imagine it perfectly, so vividly that he wonders if something like that had happened to him too, jaw clenched, hands clutching the stick, the strain on the arresting wire, breathing hard when everything finally stops moving. “Are you okay?” he can hear his own voice, full of panic and relief both.

“Shit,” a gasp responds. “Fuck, Ice-”

“That’s how I got my callsign, actually,” Ron chuckles a little, a small breathy thing that sounds almost wholly honest, and kind of like- “I was freaked the fuck out, my legs were shaking, I couldn’t walk for shit. I practically fell down the ladder when I got out of the plane and slid a good couple feet on my ass ‘cause the deck was wet. Nearly slid off the fucking ship.”

“So your callsign is what?” Lightning? Simon wants to guess jokingly, but suddenly a different word appears on the tip of his tongue and slips out just as his mind registers it. “Slider?”

He’s frowning at himself, but Ron nods with a huff. “Yeah. The squadron gave me shit about it for weeks.”

Slider. Simon presses his lips together. How did he know that?

Slick fingers slipping between his legs. “Slide-!”

He shifts in place uncomfortably.

“Ice was pissed,” Ron- Slider goes on, almost casually. “And everyone thought it was ‘cause he was a perfectionist and he was angry that he fucked it up so badly. And sure, that was a part of it, but-” he interrupts himself to swallow. “But he was also angry because one of us could’ve gotten hurt.”

“Of course.” Simon nods. “He cared about you.”

“Sli, fuck.”

He flinches away from the voice in his head without meaning to and Slider mirrors him for a wholly different reason, moving sharply as if he’s trying to escape the past tense.

But his soft smile seems like an honest reaction too. “Yeah,” he breathes out, gentle, full of care. “Not a lot of people believed it, so I didn’t bother trying to convince them but…” he trails off, doesn’t finish the sentence, but Simon - something deep inside him - feels like he understands anyway. Slider believed it, Slider knew it, and he does too, his gut and Slider’s tone making it an unshakable truth to him.

“And Ice?” he asks after a quick sip of his tea. It’s cooling down, getting pleasantly warm enough to drink. “How did he get his callsign?” Distantly, he wonders about his own - about the fact that Charlotte’s never told him what it was. Maybe she just didn’t think it was important when he wasn’t using it anymore, but the thought still makes him frown.

Slider’s mouth twitches up into a smile that feels like an automatic reaction, to a question he’s no doubt gotten many times before. “Kind of because of that too,” he says, the amusement disappearing from his expression like it doesn’t quite want to go but something else pushes it out, something sadder. “For the rest of that deployment, he nailed every landing. Every single one of them, perfect, smooth as shit. And he did that by just… freezing up. He just shut up and froze, went still as a fucking statue, did it all perfectly textbook how we were taught. It always took him a while to shake it off after we got out of the jet, he didn’t really joke around with the other guys, so they started saying he was ice cold and it just stuck.” Slider’s mouth twitches bitterly, like he hated it then and still hates it now.

Simon doesn’t disagree with the feeling, frowning. “But… he just- he flew it like that because he cared about you.” He knows that, deep down in his bones, he knows it, he can feel it. Iceman cared about Slider, it feels like a fact, like something undeniable, unquestionable. That’s not ice cold.

“No mistakes. Just wears you down-”

“Yeah, well, that’s callsigns for you,” Slider sighs. “The Russian last name didn’t help either.”

And Simon can feel that Iceman hated it, right there deep down in his bones too.

“But he kind of… embraced it,” Slider says, forcing himself to smile again. “We managed to make the best of it, I guess. Make it mean something else.”

“-wears you down. You get bored, frustrated, do something stupid-”

“He took a lot of pride in it, in the end.” Something heavy sneaks into his voice then, something awfully sad and wet that reaches into Simon’s core too, that both of them try to chase away with more tea.

The storm rumbling and roaring outside has faded away into nothing but a background noise to Slider’s voice, Simon realizes when another lightning strikes and the thunder that follows a couple seconds later barely registers in his ears. The chamomile on his tongue is soothing too, but it’s really Slider’s deep voice that’s distracted him from tensing up and flinching.

After Slider swallows, he tries to joke, “There’s like three other people who know all of that, so…”

“My lips are sealed,” Simon promises honestly. The thought of sharing the story with anyone didn’t even cross his mind. It’s private, it’s… not his. Even though it feels like…

“If you tell anyone-”

“Yeah, yeah, you’d have to kill me, I know. I started that, remember?”

The memory is unclear, it’s blurry, it’s the hint of a glass in his hand instead of a cup, a bottle on the table in front of him that a smaller hand reaches for. Simon freezes, nearly gasps, trying to chase after it. That’s a new voice, clearly and unmistakably different, and-

“We all remember that.” The surface dips, someone sitting down next to him. “Fuck, it’s a wonder Charlie still gave you a chance after that whole show.” Feet rise up on the table. He reaches for them, and-

“Good. That’s- good,” Slider says, and he doesn’t sound the same either, he doesn’t sound that relaxed, Simon doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound carefree like that, like he’s not close to collapsing under all that weight he carries.

But if Simon wanted him to… He’s already mistaken him for the man in his memories once today. He’s never… He never remembers the way he has been while sitting on the ground here. He doesn’t experience associations, not like today, the closest he’s ever come to before was hearing the roar of a plane taking off and recognizing it as familiar, as something he’s done too. He doesn’t remember when he’s awake.

But…

“Ice.”

He presses his lips together. He was so sure that it was just his damaged mind getting things mixed up and playing tricks on him, combining his incomplete past and empty present into one, because he knows who he is, he knows who he was, he does. His name is Simon, He flew solo, he was the only one in that crash. But…

“Good one, Ice!”

“What was his name?” he whispers. He almost doesn’t want to. He’s not sure what it will do, but the need to know is clawing at his core, pounding at the prison of his ribcage.

“Uhm-” Slider hesitates. Simon barely dares to look at him, drinking more tea just to have an excuse not to. “Tom. His name was Tom Kazansky.”

Tom. He nearly chokes.

“C’mon, Tom.”

“Tom. Tomcat.”

“No! Tommy!”

He flinches and it has nothing to do with the fading storm. He can’t breathe. How much like him do I look? He wants to ask, but if he’s wrong, if this is only a big, awful coincidence, it would be too cruel.

But if he’s right…

“How-” he nearly says it either way, before he’s really decided if he should, and immediately, with that single word out of his mouth, he knows it’s a bad idea. It’s cruelty. But he doesn’t have anything kinder to correct with, can’t think of anything else to say to distract from it. “You’ve lost him,” is all he manages in the end, weak and useless and hiding behind his tea.

Slider sighs, deep and heavy, but thankfully not angry, even if it doesn’t sound much better like this. When Simon dares to look up at him again, he’s pressing his lips together. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It’s- it’s been a couple years,” he reveals, as if he’s interpreted what Simon almost said as a completely different question.

A couple years could mean two or a whole decade. It could mean nothing or everything, and it doesn’t help.

“It’s- it wasn’t… good,” Slider goes on before Simon can make a decision. “We were… a part of a special unit, kind of. We were… good. We had to be.”

“The best of the best.” Simon nods along. He’s not sure why he says it-

“I’m looking for the best of the best. That’s you.” Another new voice, but familiar too. He would chase after it, but he’s too focused on Slider’s lips ticking up into a bitter smile.

“Something like that, yeah,” he sounds almost amused but it doesn’t last, vanishing in a sigh. “We were supposed to hit a target,” he says slowly, as if he’s picking his words carefully, but Simon doesn’t think it’s in an effort to lie to him. “Or, uhm, he was. My job was to watch his back.” Slider takes another sip, almost like he’s stalling.

Simon lets him, mirroring him as he strains his ears to catch the sound of the storm slowly rolling away from them, though the rain is still going strong, quieter but staying right on top of them. Briefly, he wonders if it’s late, but he doesn’t want to look away from Slider to check the time, doesn’t want to lose sight of his expression.

“It was…” Slider swallows, shaking his head. “Everyone tells me that the way I described it right after, I couldn’t have seen that MiG. They say there was nothing I could’ve done. But I just… I don’t know. If I’d have looked down instead of up, left instead of right, maybe… maybe I could’ve. Maybe I’d have seen it just a second earlier and that would’ve been enough.” He sighs. “I don’t know anymore.”

“It’s been a long time.” Simon nods, understanding, trying to reassure him, wanting to, even though he can smell smoke instead of chamomile the next time he inhales, can feel his hands clutching tight onto something that’s not a cup.

It could still mean anything. He already knew that he crashed.

“Yeah, I-” Slider interrupts himself with another sigh and decides, “It doesn’t matter. We got shot down. We had to eject, but… we were too low, and he went just a second after me and… I don’t know.” He closes his eyes, lowers his head, turns away like he’s hiding.

Simon wants to tell him that it’s alright, that he has nothing to be ashamed of, but he can’t find the words, can’t make himself speak when he can hear-

“Tom!”

“His parachute didn’t have time to open properly, something like that,” Slider says.

“No! Tommy!”

“We both hit the ground hard and I broke my arm and hit my head, and he- he was- he was just gone.”

“No, no, no, god, no. Tommy, please. Please, c’mon.” He can hear it but he can’t see it, there’s only sharp rocks and tall trees, he can’t see the voice, he can’t find it, everything hurts if he tries, he can’t move, can’t move his leg-

“I- I’m sorry-”

He finally drags his eyes open, but all he sees are shelves full of books and dark windows and Slider sitting in front of him with wet eyes, lips pressed together, shoulders hunched.

“Don’t apologize.” He’s not sure how he speaks, he only knows that there’s not a goddamn thing Slider needs to be sorry for, not a goddamn thing in the world he blames him for. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I meant for this,” Slider explains quietly. “I… didn’t mean to drop all of that on you.”

Drop.

He dropped out of the sky.

He dropped out of the sky and Slider was right there with him.

“Did he die on impact?” It’s a wonder his voice is still steady when his hands are shaking so much as he makes himself set the cup down on the ground. It’s strange to ask about it like that when he-

“I- I don’t see how-” He can see that Slider’s about to shut him down and tell him to fuck off and walk away, but he can’t, not now. Simon needs to know, he- he needs to tell him.

He closes his eyes and hopes that his gut is right. That this is truly too much to be just a coincidence. Clenching his jaw, he sets his shoulders and looks at Slider, and gets the feeling that he’s done it before. “Slider. Ron,” he says and thinks he’s done that before too. “I don’t remember the first thirty years of my life.”

Slider’s breath hitches. He freezes. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out.

“I remember waking up in the hospital with a shattered leg,” Simon barrels on. Despite them being some of the earliest memories he has, he doesn’t like to revisit those days often. “I remember being told that I was a pilot. That my name is Simon. But I look like him. You thought I was him. So I need to know, did he die on impact?” he insists, leans forward, doesn’t look away.

Slider sets his tea down hard enough that it splashes out on his hand, wide-eyed, shaking his head before his mouth can catch up. “No, I- I was holding him. He was breathing when I passed out, I- Who told you all of that?” His arm lifts, trembling, like he wants to reach for Simon but doesn’t dare touch him.

“Please. Please, Tommy, you gotta wake up. Please, I’m sorry.” The voice in his ears is fading. Simon still can’t see it, but… he doesn’t think he needs to anymore.

“The rocks were sharp,” he says. “I remember those. They said I flew solo.”

Why did they do that? Why did she do that?

“Who?” Slider leans forward, nearly meets him in the middle, nearly touches him.

Simon wants him to. “Charlotte. She’s a- I don’t know, she helped me get set up here. Ron-”

“Charlotte,” Slider repeats, voice dropping into something hard like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake. “Charlie.”

“You know her?” But he thinks he already knows that answer. “Why- They lied to me.”

All of them. All of them lied to him. All of them looked him in the eyes and told him he had nothing and didn’t even flinch, and something inside him boils.

He’s not the only one. “I- I don’t know,” Slider stutters, gritting his teeth on it. “We- our unit was classified to hell, if- if you couldn’t fly anymore…”

If he couldn’t fly anymore, they might have figured that lying was the easiest way to deal with him. They- they took this from him. Took Slider from him. Took him from Slider.

“Can I-” Slider swallows. “Can I touch you?” Like he’s afraid. Like Simon- like he’ll say no. Like touching him might make him disappear.

“Please.”

Slider moves. And he doesn’t just touch him, he wraps both of his strong arms around him and pulls him into his chest and hides his face into the crook of his neck, muffles a sob against his skin, and Simon’s nose brushes his short hair when he exhales.

Slider holds him tighter, like he’s worried he’ll fall apart. He nearly does.

“I-I-”

“I remember this,” Simon whispers again, not forcing him to search for words, not giving him the chance to apologize again. “I don’t- There’s a lot I don’t, but I remember this. You. Holding me.”

Slider sobs. “I’m sorry. God, T- I’m so sorry,” he apologizes anyway.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Simon tells him. “I remember that too. I know that. I can feel it.”

To that, Slider doesn’t say anything. But slowly, just once, just barely, Simon can feel him nod.

At midnight, Slider lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling. Crying, laughing, trying to do neither, sometimes doing both at once. He’s pissed. He’s happy. He’s still grieving but he has no reason to anymore. He wants to go back into the bookstore, he wants to still be sitting on the ground with Tom- with Simon- with Ice- with him in his arms.

He wants to call Mav, but he doesn’t do that either. He wants to have Charlie’s number and he wants to scream and swear and he wants to cry even more, and that’s why he doesn’t do it.

He breathes out, breathes in, and tries to keep doing that. He closes his eyes and all he can see is him. But for the first time, he’s not lying lifeless and bloody in Slider’s arms, he’s holding a book in one hand and a cane in the other, smiling again. Alive again.

Slider cries again, but he laughs too.

“Tommy. You gotta wake up, please. C’mon.”

“Ugh,” he groans, shifting on his warm pillow, pulling it close. “No. Don’t wanna.”

A hand runs through his hair and tugs on it, firm and yet gentle. “Well, I don’t want your knee to keep crushing my bladder.”

He gives in with a sigh and lowers his leg an inch, but doesn’t bother to move away completely. He’s warm, comfortable, short hair tickling his cheek pleasantly. He doesn’t want to move.

The deep voice grunts, the strong body shifts under him. An arm wraps around his waist and holds him close.

“Thank you,” Slider mumbles. “Go back to sleep. We have time.”

Simon wants to kiss him just for that, but sleeping sounds great too. 

On Saturday, Slider brings him coffee - weak and sweet, exactly how he likes it when he can take his time waking up. It kind of makes him want to quiz Slider, to see if he knows how he likes his strong coffee too, if he knows his favorite drink or breakfast food or pizza, anything, everything.

But more than that, even as he assures Slider that he got it right, it makes him frown. “It’s just that…” he starts slowly, well aware that this probably won’t be easy to hear. “I’m not… I can’t promise you that I’m always gonna be exactly like him. Like- like Tom.” Even if, on some level, Tom is him. He’s Tom. But… “I don’t remember being him, I can’t- I don’t feel like him.”

“I- I’m not expecting you to be like him,” Slider says, shaking his head, and Simon gets the feeling that he’s lying - because how could he not? But Slider continues with a soft chuckle, “I know you’re not. You read a lot more. And he never put stickers on anything.” He nods to Simon’s cane, and he can’t help but smile too, looking at the newest stickers he put on it just last night.

He stumbled upon a couple of cute book themed ones during his grocery run yesterday, and he had no shame about buying the whole pack just to have them. He’s sure he’ll have no problem finding a place for the rest too.

“I’ll- I’m sorry about the coffee,” Slider stutters next. “I’ll stop assuming I know what you like.”

One hand wrapped around the paper cup, Simon sighs. “You do,” he admits. “Hell, maybe even better than I do. But you also don’t.” Slider probably remembers a lot more about him than he himself does, but… he’s had his own life too, this life, for years. “I just need you to remember that.”

Slider nods firmly. “I will,” he swears. “I’ll… Simon. I’ll try.”

A part of Simon thinks that right now, Slider would agree to anything if it meant he could stay here. But there’s something inside him - someone, maybe, the man he once was - telling him that Slider’s word is good. For now, Simon decides, it’s enough.

“Now,” he says. “I’ve got a bunch of boxes that need unpacking in the back. You up for it?”

Slider blinks at him, visibly surprised, but he smiles too. “Put me to work.”

“Nicholas Correy,” Slider reads out slowly, lifting the book out of the box carefully.

Working through his own batch, Simon sets a thin little handbook of poetry down on the ground, starting a new pile. “Sci-fi,” he calls back, reaching for another one. “There should be a couple from him.”

He watches Slider dig through the box and gently take out another five books, reaching over to put them on the bottom shelf of the cart, his arms flexing quite nicely as he does it. “Personal interest?” he asks, doing a surprisingly good job of not looking like he’s already suspecting the answer.

“Nah,” Simon smiles, pulling out two romance books and setting them on top of a stack that might soon have to become two if there’s any more of them in this box. “Those are for a regular. Older guy, gave me the idea for the stickers. Some of them do sound interesting, but they haven’t convinced me yet.”

They’ve been at it for almost an hour, and Slider’s already taken one full cart around the shop. They’re working faster than Simon does on his own, even though they’re also spending a lot of time just chatting around and he’s still skimming through every book that seems interesting. But Slider’s proven to be an efficient worker, even when he’s having fun and Simon’s noticing him staring and not really moving a little too often.

He lets him keep doing it, politely pretending not to see. It’s not like he’s not used to it, not like Slider hasn’t been doing it since they met. Really, the only difference is that he looks happier now when he glances over, or at least a little more carefree.

So Simon lets him. He doesn’t have to always remind him that he doesn’t think he’s actually Tom anymore. Slider thought he was dead and he definitely blamed himself for it, even though they haven’t really talked about that part yet. He apologized way too much not to. So he deserves a moment or two to soak up the realization that it’s not true. That his… partner, most definitely in more ways than one, is actually alive and right in front of him.

Even if sometimes, Slider stares at him so intensely that Simon is half expecting him to reach out and poke him just to assure himself that he’s not dreaming.

But thinking of that, even only as a private joke, brings other things to his mind and those don’t seem funny at all. It takes him a while to build up the nerve to talk about them, a break from Slider’s eyes when they work through their respective boxes and he leaves with a second full cart. He shuffles closer when he comes back so they can unpack the last of this order together, and that’s when Simon finally convinces himself to say it, as he’s reaching inside for the first book. “You loved him,” he manages, quieter than he’d like. “Me. Tom.”

From the way Slider sighs, he could tell it’s a sensitive topic even if it wasn't already crystal clear to him. But they need to talk about it. He needs to, before it spirals into something he could never live up to.

Finally, Slider whispers, “Yeah. I… I still do. Never really figured out how to stop.” He swallows when Simon glances at him. “But- but I can try, I understand if you-”

“You don’t have to do that,” Simon whispers, dropping the book in favor of reaching for Slider’s wrist. “I- You don’t have to do that, Slider,” he repeats himself, trying to figure out how to phrase the rest. “I just- I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Letting him hold him, Slider shakes his head, his expression not quite a smile but still soft. “Loving you doesn’t hurt me,” he says. “It’s the easiest thing in the world.”

That… both helps and absolutely doesn’t. Simon clenches his jaw.

“I just meant that… I- he loved you back.” He’s still not sure how to talk about it. Him. Himself. The man who he once was and yet feels like a stranger. “I know he did. I can… I can remember it, kind of. But I don’t… I don’t feel it, right now. You’re… you’re familiar, so many things about you feel so familiar, Slider, but…”

“But at the same time, you don’t really know me,” Slider fills in what he’s unwilling to say, what seems cruel to say. That doesn’t make it any less true.

Simon nods.

Slider sighs again, softly, and twists his hand around to hold his. Simon stares. He likes how they fit together, likes how his hand feels wrapped in Slider’s just slightly bigger one. “You know,” Slider says, “I realized I loved Tom three years before I told him.”

“Oh.”

“We’d just graduated and I got so wasted that I didn’t even remember doing it in the morning,” he chuckles, almost, breathy. “I knew I did something anyway, because Tom was that freaked out about it. He didn’t even let himself consider that he might like guys before that.”

It’s strange, listening to Slider talk about him, tell a story about him that he must have known too once but can’t remember now. The words don’t bring anything back, not like talking about the storm or their accident did. Simon doesn’t know if that’s just because it’s too old, if he’ll ever remember it.

“He let me kiss him just because he was curious, because he wanted to try it. It was… a couple months before we went any further than that. He didn’t tell me he loved me back for over a year, and even if he never did, I would’ve been happy.” Slider sounds like he means it, but it seems impossible.

“How?” Simon thinks that would’ve torn him apart. He thinks maybe it did.

“I told you.” Slider smiles. “It’s the easiest thing in the world for me.”

Simon knows his eyes are wide. There’s so much affection in Slider’s expression, so much of just… pure love. It’s impossible to not believe, impossible to argue against, and it’s- it’s very hard to not want to kiss him. If Slider looked at Tom like that, Simon understands why he decided to try it even if he’d never thought about it before. It’s very tempting.

And it’s interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing in his pocket.

His own ringtone surprises Simon enough that he flinches, dropping back down on his ass hard, as if he was leaning forward before. Scrambling to pull the Nokia out of his coat, he doesn’t let himself think about it.

“Oh.” He freezes when he sees the screen. “It’s Charlotte.” He swallows. “Charlie.” He looks up at Slider just as he glances at the phone, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. “I don’t- I don’t think I want to talk to her.”

He’s never not picked up before. Ever. Even when he only had a couple minutes to talk to her, he still did it. But that was before. Before, when she was the only person he let himself be honest with. Before he found out that she lied to him about everything.

Slowly, gritting his teeth, Slider holds his hand out. “Can I?”

He knows her too. She lied to him too.

“Don’t yell at her too much,” Simon manages, because Charlotte is- was- is still his friend. There’s still a part of him that likes her. With a sigh, he accepts the call, puts in on speaker, and sets the phone into Slider’s hand.

It quickly tightens around the device, lifting it up a little, just as Charlotte’s voice comes through, “Good morning, Simon. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she says, like always, energetic like always.

Usually, Simon at least tries to match that energy, but Slider only bothers to huff. “No, not really.”

There’s a telling beat of silence. Then Charlotte demands, harsh, in a tone Simon didn’t even know she was capable of, “Who is this? How did you get this phone?”

Slider grits his teeth. “You know, that’s actually insulting,” he says. On a better day, it might have been a joke. “I understand that it’s been a while since we’ve talked, but I really think-”

Charlotte interrupts him with a sharp inhale, surprised. “Slider?”

“Hello, Charlie.” If possible, Slider grits his teeth even harder. Simon can see the muscles of his jaw tensing, and his own ache in response.

“Slider, I-”

“You looked me in the eyes and lied to me.” Slider doesn’t let her finish, his fingers clenching around the phone so hard that he might crush it. It audibly takes an effort for him to be as calm as he is. “You said you were sorry.”

“I am,” she responds quickly. She sounds like it, from what Simon wonders if he still knows about her. She sounds the she did the couple times he asked her about his past and she didn’t have the answer. “I had my orders, just like-”

“You told me you heard this was a nice place to live.”

Simon’s eyes widen. He didn’t know that.

“I had my orders,” Charlotte repeats herself, slower, like even over the phone she can sense that Slider’s said his piece now. “But not regarding helping you move.”

The muscle in Slider’s jaw ticks. He takes a deep breath, then another, and Simon feels sorry for his teeth. Eventually, he breathes out, “Thank you.” He sounds like someone is physically dragging the words out of him. “Fuck you too.” That one, he says much more emphatically. “But thanks.”

“I understand,” Charlotte says heavily, enough to make Simon suspect that this isn’t easy on her either. “I- I’ll give you some space, just… Please, could you tell Tom I’m sorry?” She sighs. “I tried.”

“Simon,” Slider corrects her sharply, and it stabs something warm into Simon’s chest, despite everything.

“Of course. Simon.”

 “I will,” Slider promises at last. “Tell Maverick hi from us.” He hangs up without waiting for a reaction, and instead of giving the phone back to Simon, he sets it on the ground harshly. He’s not holding his hand out for it, Simon realizes watching Slider flex his fingers.

He’s still angry, visibly, still fuming and tense and breathing hard, hurting both inside and out. Simon decides he hates it immediately, hates seeing him like this, hates even the thought of him being in pain. Between one blink and the next, he’s sure he always has.

He licks his lips to try and do something about it. “You know,” he starts slowly, still looking for the right words, for the best ones. “In the… interest of honesty, I did already find you attractive before all of this.” He’s not entirely sure it’ll work until Slider blinks at him, surprise breaking up his anger. “And you look hot when you’re pissed off.”

The laughter jumps out of Slider’s mouth seemingly without his conscious decision, and it makes Simon’s mouth twitch up too. Success.

“Alright,“ Slider huffs, amused, shaking his head lightly before he clears his throat. “Let’s finish this thing, and we can come back to that over lunch.”

Simon looks down to hide his smile, pockets his phone again and reaches for another book. He’s looking forward to it.